braille-black
countryside: in his path a carefully written well. Splash! it went on receipt of his body.
At 4.56 in the morning, the quietly
patrolling constable Oaf was reduced to a kneeling-praying holy man by a
leg-weakening shriek. The door of number 33 burst open and out screamed Mrs
Doonan in unlaced corsets.
' There's a
man in me bed, get him out!' she yelled, restraining her abounding bosoms.
' Madame , if
you can't frighten him in that get up, I certainly can't!'
'Do yer duty,' she said, ladelling
her bosoms back.
The constable undipped his torch,
took a firm grip on his truncheon and entered the house.
' In that
room,' she whispered.
' Leave him
to me,' said Oaf, pushing her in front. He shone his torch on the bed. Mrs
Doonan gasped and let fall her bosoms.
'Holy Mary!' she gasped, 'It's me
husband.'
She fainted, clutching the
policeman's legs as she fell, bringing his trousers to the ground. Now then,
who would have thought a constable would use green knotted string for garters,
and have red anchors tattooed on his knees? Ah, Ireland is still a land of
mystery.
'Helpppp!' shouted Milligan from the
bottom of the well.' Helppp - pppp - pelp - elp - Ip -' it echoed up.
'Who's down there drinkin' me water?'
A white face peered down the cool shaft. It was Farmer O'Mara.
'It's meeeee.'
' I know
it's you, yer idiot! but what's yer name ?' 'Milligan.'
' Dan ? What
you doin' down there, man ?'
' I'm playing the cello. What do you think ?'
He threw Milligan a rope. 'Hold
tight.' O'Mara was a giant of a man, his hands hung from his shirtsleeves like
raw hams. He started to pull. ' God , he's strong,'
thought Milligan, ascending draggletail from his watery bower.
Drying out by the fire, O'Mara gave
him hot tea and whisky. They awaited the morning. In the leaping firelight
Milligan saw O'Mara's face. His eyes were cups of sadness, and seemed far, far
older than him. A smile on that face would look like a sin.
Milligan knew the story. O'Mara had
married a raving beauty, Sile Kerns. When he started courting her every man in
the village had been through her, every one in the village knew it, all except
O'Mara. Him being so big they were frightened to cast asper-sions on the girl.
The marriage bore three children, Sean, Laura and Sarah. It seemed that at last
Sile had left her old ways behind her. Then O'Mara had
caught her
red-handed, the lover had fled across the countryside without his trousers
which were shown as evidence. O'Mara was awarded custody of the kids. That
seemed the end of it, things settled down, all but Sile, who was slowly going
out of her mind.
Losing the kids had done it. One
night Sile got in to their bedroom and cut their throats. She would have had
O'Mara too but for the fact he couldn't sleep for the toothache. She was taken
away and put in Gedstow Asylum.
There she sat out her life, sitting
and looking at a wall, sitting and looking at a wall, sitting and looking at a
wall. . . . From a man who laughed and loved life, O'Mara was cut down to a
walking dead. It was thirteen years since then. Unknown to anybody, he still
kept the children's beds made up and every night slept with a teddy bear and a
dolly clutched in his great hairy arms.
Now he bred horses. In the spring
he'd watch the young rubber-legged foals racing through the sweet morning
grass, and sometimes he could see three laughing children on their backs.
They lay buried in the Churchyard of
St Theresa. He comforted himself with whisky, and an eternal hatred of women.
'You drink too much,' Dr Goldstein told him.
' Drink too
much for what ?' he asked in reply. The doctor, knowing his tragedy, stayed
silent.
Sgt Joseph MacGillikudie read and
re-read the official report.' Is this all true ? ' he
asked the blinking constable.
' It's just
as it happened, Sarge.'
MacGillikudie removed his pince-nez.
'It's a mystery then how did Dan Doonan get out of his coffin, take his boots
off and get into bed without a wig on, at the
countryside: in his path a carefully written well. Splash! it went on receipt of his body.
At 4.56 in the morning, the quietly
patrolling constable Oaf was reduced to a kneeling-praying holy man by a
leg-weakening shriek. The door of number 33 burst open and out screamed Mrs
Doonan in unlaced corsets.
' There's a
man in me bed, get him out!' she yelled, restraining her abounding bosoms.
' Madame , if
you can't frighten him in that get up, I certainly can't!'
'Do yer duty,' she said, ladelling
her bosoms back.
The constable undipped his torch,
took a firm grip on his truncheon and entered the house.
' In that
room,' she whispered.
' Leave him
to me,' said Oaf, pushing her in front. He shone his torch on the bed. Mrs
Doonan gasped and let fall her bosoms.
'Holy Mary!' she gasped, 'It's me
husband.'
She fainted, clutching the
policeman's legs as she fell, bringing his trousers to the ground. Now then,
who would have thought a constable would use green knotted string for garters,
and have red anchors tattooed on his knees? Ah, Ireland is still a land of
mystery.
'Helpppp!' shouted Milligan from the
bottom of the well.' Helppp - pppp - pelp - elp - Ip -' it echoed up.
'Who's down there drinkin' me water?'
A white face peered down the cool shaft. It was Farmer O'Mara.
'It's meeeee.'
' I know
it's you, yer idiot! but what's yer name ?' 'Milligan.'
' Dan ? What
you doin' down there, man ?'
' I'm playing the cello. What do you think ?'
He threw Milligan a rope. 'Hold
tight.' O'Mara was a giant of a man, his hands hung from his shirtsleeves like
raw hams. He started to pull. ' God , he's strong,'
thought Milligan, ascending draggletail from his watery bower.
Drying out by the fire, O'Mara gave
him hot tea and whisky. They awaited the morning. In the leaping firelight
Milligan saw O'Mara's face. His eyes were cups of sadness, and seemed far, far
older than him. A smile on that face would look like a sin.
Milligan knew the story. O'Mara had
married a raving beauty, Sile Kerns. When he started courting her every man in
the village had been through her, every one in the village knew it, all except
O'Mara. Him being so big they were frightened to cast asper-sions on the girl.
The marriage bore three children, Sean, Laura and Sarah. It seemed that at last
Sile had left her old ways behind her. Then O'Mara had
caught her
red-handed, the lover had fled across the countryside without his trousers
which were shown as evidence. O'Mara was awarded custody of the kids. That
seemed the end of it, things settled down, all but Sile, who was slowly going
out of her mind.
Losing the kids had done it. One
night Sile got in to their bedroom and cut their throats. She would have had
O'Mara too but for the fact he couldn't sleep for the toothache. She was taken
away and put in Gedstow Asylum.
There she sat out her life, sitting
and looking at a wall, sitting and looking at a wall, sitting and looking at a
wall. . . . From a man who laughed and loved life, O'Mara was cut down to a
walking dead. It was thirteen years since then. Unknown to anybody, he still
kept the children's beds made up and every night slept with a teddy bear and a
dolly clutched in his great hairy arms.
Now he bred horses. In the spring
he'd watch the young rubber-legged foals racing through the sweet morning
grass, and sometimes he could see three laughing children on their backs.
They lay buried in the Churchyard of
St Theresa. He comforted himself with whisky, and an eternal hatred of women.
'You drink too much,' Dr Goldstein told him.
' Drink too
much for what ?' he asked in reply. The doctor, knowing his tragedy, stayed
silent.
Sgt Joseph MacGillikudie read and
re-read the official report.' Is this all true ? ' he
asked the blinking constable.
' It's just
as it happened, Sarge.'
MacGillikudie removed his pince-nez.
'It's a mystery then how did Dan Doonan get out of his coffin, take his boots
off and get into bed without a wig on, at the
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